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Notes from the Home - March 2, 2013

Monday, I awoke
to the sound of the falling rain; an all too familiar sound, lately. I suppose
the rain was the price we paid for Sunday’s sunshine, which was our reward for
Saturday’s torrential rain. Until Sunday, I hadn’t realized there is a creek in
the woods along the entry road to the plaza across the street. And even then, I
had a hard time seeing it through the trees and undergrowth. But I could hear
it, as the runoff from Saturday’s rain rushed toward the Chattahoochee River a
few miles to the west.

I shouldn’t complain about the rain. There
hasn’t been much of it until the last month or so. Apparently, this region has
been in a ten-year drought, and it will take several more months like February
to get the water table back to where it should be. But the damp air makes me
stiff, and the rain keeps me indoors, so complain I will.

For those who are saying, “I wish he’d stop
his whining,” I do have something to whine about. According to an article in
the February 26th edition of the Ledger-Enquirer, 10.5 inches of rain had
fallen on Columbus in February. So, with two days left in the month, the old
February record – 9.4 inches – was under more than an inch of water. December
2009, when 13.4 inches of rain fell, is the wettest month in Columbus history.

From the Department of Isn’t That a
Co-inky-dink: Last Monday, I sent a few humorous poems – humorous in my
opinion, anyway – to Spider, a magazine that targets six-to-nine-year-olds. Wednesday,
Russ took me to Target. Along the way, in our discussion of what we were doing
to stay busy, Russ said he was trying to drum up some work as an illustrator.
One of publications he is sending some samples to is Spider.

I spent some time Tuesday at the West
Georgia Eye Care Center, where the doctor looked into my eyes to check on the
state of my macular degeneration. (Note: I have Multiple Sclerosis, which is a
degenerative disease, and macular degeneration. Apparently, I’m on my way to becoming
a complete degenerate, the fate Mom predicted if I didn’t straighten up.) My
macular hasn’t degenerated since my last visit, and the doctor said it wouldn’t
be necessary to stick a needle in my eye. Always a good thing.

After a few visits to both the West Georgia
Eye Care Center and the Emory Clinic, I’m beginning to think that Southern
hospitality, at least as it applies to the medical community, is vastly
overrated. I suppose I was just a number to the folks at the Cleveland Clinic
and Vitreo-Retinal Consultants in Mentor, but at least they made me feel like
more than a digit, and they smiled from time to time.

The waiting room at the Eye Care Center is
full of chairs, so full of chairs it’s almost impossible to navigate in a
wheelchair. A couple – they looked to be in their seventies – helped me by
moving some of the chairs. No one from the staff did.

Al stopped in this morning.

“Annie gave me this,” he said, handing me a
small plastic dish containing some hard candy, a small package of peanuts and a
package of trail mix; the standard birthday gift pack Covenant Woods gives its
residents. “She said it’s because my birthday is in February. Look at all those
nuts. I can’t eat the goddamn things.”

Then something in the bowl caught his eye.
He pulled it out, looked it over and said, “What the hell is this?”

It was a five-dollar Walmart gift card.

“Oh hell, you can have that, too,” he said.

“I never go to Walmart.”

“Well, I suppose I could take it and buy
something.”

The bowl of goodies was only an excuse to
come see me. Al came to talk. Al is different: he is an agnostic in the Bible
belt, and his sexual orientation is ambiguous – “Don’t worry, Tom, I haven’t
had an erection in twenty years.”

He doesn’t have many regrets. “I never hurt
anyone,” he said. “All my life all I ever wanted to do is help people.” And he
doesn’t feel that he was lead down the primrose path by some evil force. “It’s
natural. It’s what I am.”

But why is he different? That’s what he’s
trying so hard to figure out. For him, I think, it is an intellectual exercise.
Is it genetics? Is it birth order? Is it nature? Is it nurture?

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he asks.

No, I don’t. In fact, in a community where
certainty and smug self-satisfaction is rampant, those who, like Guy Noir, are
still looking for the answers to life’s persistent questions are as refreshing
as an oasis in the Sahara.

Wednesday night, I stood up and started to
pull the bed covers down and lost my balance. Even as I was falling, I was
confident I would land in the wheelchair. When there is nothing for me to hang
on to when I stand, I try to stay directly in front of the wheelchair, so if I
fall backward, I fall into the seat. And I did. But, I was farther from the
wheelchair than I thought, and only a very small portion of my ample posterior
hit the chair. I was able to hold on to the chair’s arms and keep myself from
falling. But I couldn’t generate enough oomph to get my entire butt on the
chair. And with my arms busy holding me up, I couldn’t use them to maneuver my
legs in order to get some leverage.

After a short struggle, I eased myself, butt
and all, on to the floor. Squeezed between the wheelchair and the bed, I was
unable to get up. I called the desk, and two aides were dispatched to slide me
from beneath the bed and sling me into the sack. It was embarrassing, but, in
the eleven months I’ve been here, it was the first time I’ve had to call for
help.

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